


wednesday (oh, to turn back time)

by rosycheeked



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Child from the Future, First Kiss, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Outsider, Resolved Sexual Tension, Time Travel Fix-It, the turtle CAN help us folks, the turtle god made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosycheeked/pseuds/rosycheeked
Summary: It’s one thing to hear about defeating an evil shapeshifting fear-powered alien—twice—from your parents and their friends, but it’s another thing entirely to have been sent back in time a good twenty years on a mission to get your aforementioned parents together by some deity that looks like a turtle and chose to appear to you in the middle of an AP Chem class.The obligatory time-travel fix-it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112





	wednesday (oh, to turn back time)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been too long. I mean: my last fic was in November? Insane! I have so many WIPs it's insane! And I just keep joining more fandoms!
> 
> Sorry, y'all. But anyways, this fic is inspired by the dearly departed fic "Home is Where the Time Machine Is" by Wordsplat, sadly deleted but never forgotten.
> 
> Also, my first OC starring in a work—how exciting! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> E
> 
> *mild cursing/swearing, mentions of blood*

Wednesday had tried so hard not to fall asleep in AP Chem. Again. But as much as she loves science, especially chemistry, she’d gotten not a wink of sleep last night, and the hypnotic power of a lecture is tripled at least when you’re tired.

So when the bell rings to signal the end of the day, Wednesday jerks awake and avoids eye contact with her teacher as she scrambles out. Her thoughts are whirling, though. She’s just had this bizarre dream—or maybe it was a nightmare? Her heart is still pounding.

A turtle god had shown her some sort of vision where her dad, Richie Kaspbrak, almost confessed his love to her pops, Eddie Kaspbrak, right before they were about to go and kill IT. But he hadn’t. And that had caused her pops to get impaled on an alien fucking _arm spike_ and bleed out in her dad’s arms as he cried.

Her being seventeen doesn’t make her fucking emotionless, jeez. She loves her parents whether they adopted her or not. When she tries to convey this to the turtle-god-presence that’s still in her head, though, it ignores her protests in favor of telling her that she must go back and make her dad confess his feelings in order to save her pops’ life. 

She doesn’t know how she knows this; maybe she’s finally losing it. The sleep deprivation is getting to her or something. Turtle gods don’t exist, and they definitely don’t talk in the heads of seventeen-year-old girls and give them visions.

Wednesday only has a few seconds to think about how her dad has always said that he remembers kissing her pops (ew) right before they went to fight IT the second time (double ew), but not what happened right before. Adrenaline, maybe, or IT messing with them, he’d said, smiling sappily at his husband.

_Probably should’ve paid more attention_ , she muses, and then there’s a sharp tugging sensation in her gut and everything goes black.

...

When Wednesday opens her eyes, she’s standing right behind her dad, who’s saying, “—kill this fucking clown.”

And like an idiot, still in shock from the—teleportation?—she says, “Dad?”

Every single Loser turns around to look at her. They look...younger. And they look confused.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” her dad asks.

Oh, no.

“Fuck,” she swears under her breath. “God fucking damn it. Stupid turtle—“

“Young lady,” Aunt Bev interrupts, “we’re kind of in the middle of—“

“Don’t go kill IT yet!” Wednesday blurts.

She can see the double-take each Loser does, each of them reevaluating this girl who, from their perspective, must have literally popped out of thin air. She can’t believe she’s just _travelled back in time_. That shouldn’t be possible, not according to any sort of law or paradox or time continuity theory.

It’s one thing to hear about defeating an evil shapeshifting fear-powered alien—twice—from your parents and their friends, but it’s another thing entirely to have been sent back in time a good twenty years on a mission to get your aforementioned parents together by some deity that looks like a turtle and chose to appear to you in the middle of an AP Chem class.

It’s another thing entirely to have to explain to your parents and their friends, who have raised you for all seventeen years of your life, that your name is Wednesday because you’re born on a Thursday and your dad, the (not yet) famous comedian Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, thought it would be hilarious to name you after the day before.

Yeah. Twenty years in the past, and that’s what Wednesday is doing. Trying to explain her future-dad’s twisted sense of humor to his past self. Thanks a lot, turtle god.

“If you’re saying you’re Richie’s...future daughter,” Uncle Ben says slowly, “who’s your other parent? Because no offense, but you look nothing like him.”

It’s true. You don’t have to be observant to look at Wednesday, with grey-blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, to see that she doesn’t resemble her father at all. But she can’t very well tell them that Eddie’s her other father. The turtle-god-presence in her head insists that they must get together of their own accord. So she can’t out her pops, can’t out her dad, and has to prove that she’s actually on their side and—

Past-Richie squints at her. “Whoever I marry must be fucking hot.”

Wednesday makes a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. “No! No, I’m adopted.”

“Aw, damn,” her dad sighs, but Wednesday can read him like a book. She can see the barely-masked relief in his eyes.

“Look, I’m not some creature IT sent to try to murder you one last time, okay?” she tells them. “I know you all. You raised me.”

“C-can you prove it?” Uncle Bill inquires quietly.

“My middle name is Beverly,” Wednesday tells him, “after my aunt Bev. Dad—Richie—always says that she’s the coolest gal he knows.”

Uncle Bill looks appropriately touched at this. And so does Uncle Ben, and Uncle Mike, and her pops, and even her dad, and—

Aunt Bev looks unmoved. Damn. “Show us your ID, then, young lady. It’ll have your name on it, no? Then we’ll listen to what you have to say.”

They can’t see her ID, though. They _can’t_. Because the name on her ID isn’t “Tozier.” Her dad, in his infinite wisdom (damn him), had changed his last name when he married Eddie. The name on her ID is _Kaspbrak_.

Wednesday shakes her head. “I can’t show you my ID, Au—Bev, I’m sorry.”

Aunt Bev raises a cutting eyebrow at her. Wednesday tries to suppress the feeling of wanting to cry; Aunt Bev was the one who had showed her how to raise one eyebrow when she was twelve, had told her how to curl the sarcasm around her tongue like a shield, had taught her how to manipulate anyone to do what she wanted them to.

And here’s that same Aunt Bev, albeit twenty years younger and trying to use those very tricks on Wednesday herself. 

It won’t work. “Look,” she says, and she’s almost proud that her voice barely quavers, “I—I’ll tell you things no one else would know, so you’ll believe me.”

Forcing a smile does nothing. Finally, Uncle Bill replies, “G-go ahead, then, W-Wednesday.”

God, she loves them all so much. She wishes she knew this time’s Bill as well as she knows hers, so that he could sweep her up in his arms like he always did, and she could feel safe.

_Just tell them the truth_ , she thinks, desperately trying to recall what the Losers were like at 40. “I know that Bill can’t write happy endings, and Richie doesn’t write any of his own jokes,” she starts slowly. “When you all left Derry the first time, you forgot about each other. And—I know about Stan.” She pauses, swallowing, watching her family watch her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t sent back far enough to save him, you always say I would’ve loved him.

“I know about Georgie, and that Au—that Bev’s husband is probably abusing her—” Wednesday watches Aunt Bev wince at that, and feels a stab of pity because she’s always hoped it wasn’t true—“and I know Mike was the one who stayed behind. I know that Bill‘s first kiss was Bev, and Bev’s first kiss was Ben, and that Mike still wears the watch Stan gave him on his eighteenth birthday.

“I know about Audra,” she gestures to Bill, “and Myra,” she looks at Eddie, “and I know that Ben can’t stand green bell peppers, and wasabi makes Eddie cry, and Richie has read too many of those cheesy romance novels to count. Bev, you bleached your hair by accident when you were eleven, and Bill’s first real story was inspired by my—by Richie and Eddie’s stupid hammock they insisted on sharing.”

That was—more than she thought she knew, honestly, or at least thought she’d be able to come up with on the spot. It had to be enough. It _had_ to.

“Any creature of IT’s could know that,” Aunt Bev says slowly, but she sounds more unsure, now. Is Wednesday getting anywhere? She certainly hopes so, because her inner turtle-god-clock is telling her that time is running out, that she can’t stay here in the past forever.

Not that she wants to. She wants to go home.

“I still don’t see why you can’t show us your ID, or your driver’s license, or your credit card—“ Aunt Bev starts again.

“My po—I mean, I’m not allowed to have a credit card yet.”

Aunt Bev hums. The others are watching them, eyes bouncing back and forth like a tennis match.

Wednesday doesn’t know what else to do but—

“Dad?” she says, and curses how young she sounds, how wheedling. “I mean, Richie? Could I talk to you alone?”

“I don’t know,” Aunt Bev begins, but Richie cuts her off.

“I’ll talk to her, Marsh. You all can discuss some clown-killing strategies, and I’ll chat with Miss Wednesday here.”

Her pops (not her pops, Eddie, but he looks _just_ like her father and it _hurts_ ) says to Richie in a soft voice they only ever use with each other (even now, twenty years ago and before they knew they were in love), “You sure, Richie?”

(Her parents were such morons. She wonders how many of the Losers knew, before.) 

Richie smiles at him, and in a reassuring tone, replies, “If this teenage girl was going to try to kill me, she would’ve done it already. And besides—“ he winks at Wednesday— “if she decided to attack me, I think I could take her.”

The Losers sigh a collective, typical-Richie sigh and collapse into a conversation that’s part small talk, part do-you-believe-that-girl, part we’re-about-to-fight-IT-adrenaline. Wednesday turns to Richie—who isn’t her father quite yet, but if this works, will be—and says, point-blank: “I know about the Kissing Bridge.”

Richie blanches. Full-on goes pale and takes a step back and almost inadvertently replies, “What?”

“Would something IT sent to scare you away know that?” she continues. “Your one good thing? You know IT only uses your fears against you. I know you, Richie K—Tozier. You raised me.”

Richie blinks. “I—“

“I know you’re still in love with Eddie.”

Richie actually backs away a bit now. He looks...afraid. Of her. It’s unsettling and kind of a sobering thought, that almost twenty years ago just the fact that her dad was in love with her pops could make him this scared.

“Wednesday?” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Tell me—“

“I know IT threatened to expose it like it was some dirty secret.”

(his dirty little secret, Wednesday knows, she’s heard her parents talking about it after they woke up from their nightmares at midnight—)

“But it’s not a secret anymore, Richie. It doesn’t have to be. It got you me, right?”

Richie laughs a dry, shaking laugh and says, “So?”

“I know this is a lot, Richie, but I need you to trust me, okay? I’m your daughter, I just—we don’t have much time.”

Richie says nothing.

“Damn it, Dad—“ she doesn’t bother to correct herself— “you need to hear me out. Please?”

Richie waves a hand, relenting. “Go ahead, Wednesday.”

Her dad hasn’t called her “Wednesday” since the last time she got grounded. (She was thirteen, okay?) It’s always “Wens” or “Nes” or “WB” or “monkey” or...you know. Whatever weird nickname pops into his head first.

Doesn’t matter; the puppy-dog eyes never fail.

“You have to tell Eddie how you feel,” Wednesday tells him. “Otherwise he’s going to get stabbed by IT and die in your arms and you’ll still win, but you’ll never find purpose again because Eddie’s dead and I won’t even get to exist, or maybe I will, but I won’t get to be raised by you and I’ll spend my life in foster homes and then just drifting and I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t—if you don’t _fucking_ listen!”

Maybe she told him a little bit too loudly. She clears her throat, and the Losers go back to their quiet conversation.

“I can’t,” Richie says dully. “Fuck, you expect me to just—tell him? I can’t, okay? I can’t.”

“God damn it, you have to! Richie—“

He inhales and exhales quickly, swallows, looks away.

“Richie, Dad, look: would someone sent to kill you be convincing you to try and save Eddie right now? The love of your life! All you need to do is _tell him_.”

Richie mouths “the love of my life” and shakes his head. 

“Fuck,” Wednesday snaps at him. One last shot. Steeling herself, she digs into her pocket and pulls out her wallet, which has her driver’s license in its front pocket. She pulls it out and shoves it at the stupid past-version of her dad. “Here’s your proof, all right?”

This might not be her dad, not yet, but she still feels that twinge of secondhand pain when she sees him read the words on the card once, then twice, then put his hand over his mouth in seeming disbelief. The Losers have fallen silent in favor of watching them.

“Okay?” Wednesday asks him gently, watching carefully for any sign of remaining doubt that she’s not real, that he won’t listen to her. Richie wipes his hand on his shirt and nods, wordless. He’s crying a little bit. Wednesday feels like crying too. She can’t believe that she’s the one who has to get her parents together because they couldn’t get their shit together on their own. Some role models they are.

Aunt Bev breaks the silence. “What’s the verdict, Tozier?”

Richie’s holding onto her license so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He passes it hesitantly to Uncle Ben, and Wednesday could pass out from relief. Aunt Bev leans over to read it too, and Wednesday watches as she mouths the words: _Wednesday Beverly Kaspbrak_.

“Oh,” Aunt Bev says.

“Oh, sh- _shit_ ,” Uncle Bill adds.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Wednesday huffs, and snatches her license back from Uncle Ben’s open palm, shoving it into her pocket. Her pops—er, Eddie—doesn’t see the name on it because he’s too busy gazing at Richie with a tight look on his face that Wednesday finally realizes is _jealousy_. Her past-pops is jealous because he thinks Richie’s going to raise a child with someone else!

Oh, this is rich. They’re _both_ idiots. This is getting ridiculous.

Wednesday elbows Richie in a way she hopes is encouraging. He inhales shakily and exhales on a laugh that borders on hysterical. Wednesday would be worried, but she already knows that her dad is more than a little bit crazy. It’s what makes the crowds love him.

There are no crowds now. There’s only her parents, Richie and Eddie, who aren’t her parents yet but are already looking at each other like the rest of them aren’t even there. Out of the corner of her eye, Wednesday sees Uncle Mike cough into his fist a bit pointedly and glance towards the decrepit house where IT waits.

“I—“ Richie starts. The timer in Wednesday’s head ticks down and down and down, but there’s no rush, not anymore. “Eds, I—fuck.”

If Wednesday had thought her (not-)dad was shaken before, he’s fucking trembling now. This is what IT had used against him, what he’d been afraid of all these years, what he’d forgotten.

_It’ll be okay, come on,_ she thinks at him. _Go for it. Just do it._

“I’ve been in love with you since I was fucking six and I never stopped!” Richie blurts, and Wednesday feels it settle in her gut like an orb of light.

The truth. Took them long enough.

Richie looks at Wednesday like the world is crashing down around him, and she smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring and mentally begs Eddie to just _say_ something. _Do_ something. This doesn’t look half as fucking stressful in rom-coms.

But Richie takes a step back, as if to run, and it’s all Wednesday can do not to shout _No!_ and shove them at each other. Luckily for her, Eddie reaches out and grabs Richie’s wrist before he can get away.

They both look at Eddie’s hand on Richie’s wrist like they have no idea how it got there. And Richie says faintly, “Eddie?”

Wednesday’s pretty sure she hears Uncle Mike cough into his fist again. He’s right: they have minutes left, maybe even seconds.

“Me too, you dumbfuck,” Eddie whispers, and Richie makes a sound that’s half-sob and half-laugh and—

“Fucking finally,” someone hisses (probably Uncle Ben, he can never leave anything well enough alone), and Wednesday feels that tug in her stomach again. It’s time.

And someone wolf-whistles (probably Uncle Bill, he always gets too excited about shit for his own good), and suddenly all the Losers are cheering, and Wednesday has just enough time to whisper, “I love you all,” and see Aunt Bev narrow her eyes at her, and then everything goes black.

...

When Wednesday gets home from school (finally), the first thing she does is throw her arms around her dad. Richie fucking Kaspbrak, 2004 and solid in her embrace. 

“WB?” he says, understandably confused. “Wednesday, is everything okay?”

“You idiot!” she exclaims at him, and he looks even more confused. Her pops, who had been cooking dinner, walks into the room. She hugs him, too, then turns around to her dad and punches him (not too hard, he’s getting old) on his shoulder. 

“Both of you are fucking idiots!” she cries again.

Calmly as ever, her pops (Eddie Kaspbrak, 2004, here and now and hers) asks her, “Hey, Wens, want to tell us what’s going on?”

“Remember when you said you never really knew how you got together, you just remember, you know, kissing? Right before the defeating IT thing? And you thought it was just the heat of the moment or something?” Wednesday takes a shaky breath, and Pops pets her hair idly, and even if he has no idea what she’s saying, the casualness of the act is comforting. “It was me. The—fuck—the turtle god sent me back in time to get my own parents together. You pair of oblivious idiots! You needed your daughter to get you to admit your feelings for each other?” She’s veering dangerously into the screech zone, so she stops there and watches for their reactions.

“ _Oh_ ,” her pops sighs, as if something is dawning on him.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” her dad says. “Fuck! It was you all along!”

“Language, Richie,” her pops tells him, but it sounds more teasing than anything.

“Fuck off, Eds,” her dad ribs back, and then they’re kissing (again).

Wednesday sighs, aiming for long-suffering and ending up more contented than anything.

And maybe it’s just her imagination, but as she turns her head away and makes the universal teenage ‘ugh’ of disgust, she swears she can feel an approving tug in her stomach. The turtle-god kind of tug.

She can’t be sure, though, not when she’s too busy trying not to grin at Pops whispering “It was you all along” into Dad’s hair, not when she’s too busy trying not to laugh at her dad trying to bite him in return. Parents are the worst.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you leave kudos or a comment or even a little tag on your bookmark I will die for you.
> 
> E


End file.
